


Blood Is Blue

by marchlands



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV)
Genre: (I really mean it this time), Accuracy is Questionable, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, F/M, Historical, Inspired by the veritable trove of historical romance novels on my shelf, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, We came here for a good time - not for logic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29206008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchlands/pseuds/marchlands
Summary: When Laura Savelli’s noble family falls into penury - and deciding a life of honest labor is preferable to one behind cloisters - she runs away from the convent where her mother and sister are taking refuge, sheds her name, and joins the household of the Medici as Bianca’s maid. Laura thought she knew what she was getting herself into, but she never counted on catching Lorenzo’s eye, or that she, in turn, would be so drawn to a man beyond her reach.
Relationships: Lorenzo "Il Magnifico" de' Medici/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read Dust and Shadow you know that one's not a straightforward happy ending. This was my attempt to get one out of my system. It's shorter and less researched than D&S - like the tag says, it's sheer fluff and entertainment - and, for the most part, it ignores the show's political drama. Blame Lisa Kleypas... and Julia Quinn... and Sarah MacLean...

The abode of the angels—that was where Alma Collodi belonged, and I made sure to remind her often and as sweetly as I could manage, especially on occasions like these, when her sweat-dampened cheeks went red and she’d taken to yelling profanities at the scullery maids.

“Remember no one has hands like yours, signora. One day, you will cook for the very saints,” I soothed, coming behind her and squeezing her plump shoulders until she pursed her lips in mock annoyance and swiped at me with her apron. The kitchen maids and passing groom rolled their eyes at my blatant cajolery—no doubt they would rather see the old cook burning with the spike-tailed demons—but my words had their intended effect: Alma ceased all denigrations and resumed her duties with a more sedate, purposefully dignified air, as if Saint Peter himself were standing at the threshold of the Medici kitchens, surveying the chaos for someone worthy of stewing his beef in the Hereafter.

“Oh, away with you! Kitchen’s no place for a lady’s maid, you’ll only get underfoot!” The red in Alma’s cheeks turned a pleasant pink and I knew my work was done. I swiped a sugared wafer from one of the dessert trays on my way out, a reward for once again averting a crisis involving the only woman in Florence who could give away my secret.

Not that foul temper would ever turn Alma traitor. She was loyal at heart, and she had been devoted to my family since long before my birth. If she now had a new set of masters, it was only because my father’s promise of a roof and a pension had come to naught; yet even so disappointed, Giacomo Savelli was still the finest man in Europe in her eyes, a bastion of chivalry now gone from this world, never again to be replaced or recovered. It was for his sake that she helped me in my deceptions. Father may not have left a single coin for my dowry, but at least he left me a loyal, if not cantankerous, Alma. Small mercies were not to be balked at.

I walked out of the sweltering chaos of the kitchens and into the cooler, no less jumbled halls. Wherever I looked, there were harried servants a moment away from breaking into a run, and it only got worse the closer I got to the palazzo’s public rooms. I narrowly dodged a boy hauling a massive candle-stand, the base of which came but a hair's-breadth away from clocking me on the chin. I took that as my cue to hasten. I’d been killing time in the kitchens, drawn, as always, by the inviting scent of herbed roasts and candied fruit, but my own mistress would be wanting to dress soon. The Medici’s paschal feast called for more pomp and adornment than usual and I was already cutting it close, so I quit my tarrying and went up the stairs to the private apartments, passing a gaggle of chambermaids going down to prepare the guest rooms reserved for overnight visitors.

I’d only been at Palazzo Medici three months, but already I had the distinct impression that these sorts of occasions were going to prove difficult. It wasn’t the extra work that was the issue—I liked the bustle of keeping busy, of being needed in a way I never had been as an idle lady of privilege—so much as the reminder of how much Marianna and I had looked forward to feasts, in the years when such things had been a possibility. Back then, we would lay claim to dressmakers months in advance, and my sister, ever curious about the current French fashions, always sought out ways to be a little more daring than Father would allow. My scandalized protestations on the subject were half-hearted, at best; she knew I secretly liked having an excuse to misbehave, to draw eyes without consequence, just for one night, when normally I kept to the fringes and let my younger sister shine.

On the day, we would hole up in a room together, either in her chambers or in mine, having cakes and watered-down wine and holding our mutinous gowns up to our chests, sharing conspiratorial laughs as we intimated our hoped-for dance partners, the boys who would bow over our hands with eyes a-twinkle, desperate for a show of our favor. Perhaps it was that same vain frivolity and pride that cost us Paradise, that brought Massimo Abbiati to our door, to punish me.

Either way, I would never again be invited to a feast, or asked to dance, or wear the sort of finery I would be shortly investing upon the pretty Bianca de’ Medici. That part of my life was over. But I had my freedom and that was enough—it had to be.

I reached the door of my mistress’s chamber, knocked twice, then went in without waiting for word. The topsy-turvy state of the interior filled me with a pang of nostalgia; Marianna had been just as careless with her things. There were dresses strewn over tables and chairs; slippers littering the plushly carpeted floor, threatening anyone who ventured inside with an ungainly toppling; jeweled pins; unmatched earrings—to end, all manner of baubles and flounce, a loud explosion of luxury my fingers longed to touch. Even so, the brightest light in the room was undoubtedly Bianca herself.

“Elena!” she exclaimed, giving me that exuberant smile shared by all three scions of the Medici. “There you are! Come quick—I cannot decide between the blue damask or the red brocade. Help me?”

I came forward. There were half a dozen gowns laid out on the bed but I quickly ascertained to which two she referred. I replied, “Damask would look better under candlelight, my lady,” then added, hastily: “In my opinion.”

“But there is also this yellow…” She picked up another, held it up to the swiftly fading daylight coming in through the open paned windows. “The cloth was a gift from Madonna Rivabene. She’s been asking after it for months.”

I couldn’t help it—I made a face. Even the most skilled dressmaker in Florence would have a hard time making sense of such an atrocious bolt of fabric. The style was current, smart, even, but the ill-thought shades of warp and weft made “yellow” look more like “vile chartreuse one would only wish upon one’s mortal enemy.” Bianca took one look at my expression and chuckled.

“You’re right, it is terrible. We will go with the blue!”

I helped her slip the dress on over a fine linen chemise, tying the stays, attaching the matching sleeves. It was a perfect silk confection done up in the intense blue of a peacock’s plumes. Longingly, I ran my hands down the fabric as I adjusted the drapes and falls of the billowing skirt. It was the kind of dress I would have loved on sight.

_ No,  _ I corrected,  _ it is a dress Laura Savelli would have loved on sight _ , and I was no longer she.

“And how would you like your hair done, Signorina Bianca?” I asked, echoing a question my own maids had asked on similar occasions. I let the sting land. It would remind me of the present truth, the role to which I must acclimate myself from now on. All things considered, my situation was not so bad. Many others would compromise themselves if it meant a comfortable position in the household of the foremost family in Florence. I could be back at the convent—would be, if I let sentimentality get in the way of my plans.

Bianca took her seat before the vanity, that Medici smile ready upon her lips. “Do as you will. I know I am in capable hands.”

I was grateful for my years of practice on Marianna. Deftly, I arranged the silky strands of light brown hair into an arrangement of braids, leaving the bottom half free to fall along her back in the style reserved for unmarried ladies. I forewent the jeweled cauls in favor of a hundred fine pins, giving the impression that the entire thing held together by sheer force of will.

Bianca beamed at the end result, fawning over her beauty, my skill, the certainty that she would be one of the best-appointed women in the hall that night. Having finished, I began trawling through the mayhem, picking up veils and shoes, hunting for missing jewels. By the window, I came across an overdress that had fallen behind a chair, crumpled and forgotten, its diaphanous beauty untouched by the stubborn creases that marred the pale pink silk. I was startled when Bianca said, “You can have that one, if you like.”

“Oh, I—” I colored deeper than the gown, feeling caught out, ashamed that I had not guarded my feelings more diligently.  _ Elena Guardi would not covet her mistress’s things. _

Bianca waved a hand, the movement a careless interlude as she finnicked with her hair, bringing a bit forward to drape over her shoulders. “Really, I haven’t worn it in ages and the color would suit you better anyway. I insist.”

“Thank you, signorina.” As a servant being offered a gift by one of my betters, it was the only proper response, and though I did love the dress, it still wounded my pride to know myself at the mercy of other people’s charitable whims.  _ And when would Elena have occasion to wear such finery, anyway? _ Still, I smiled and did my best to look grateful. After all, it was a kind gesture from someone who had no reason being kind to a maid.

Satisfied, Bianca gave a little nod. “Now—emeralds?” She meant for jewels. I considered her for a moment, then the glittering pendants she dangled from her hands and held against her earlobes.

I shook my head. “Gold.”

The simpler the better, to draw attention to the gown.

“Really?” she asked, dubious, but then she shrugged and said, “All right, then. Thank you, Elena, I think I am quite done.”

I bowed my head and crossed to the door. “Signorina.”

No sooner had I placed my hand on the knob than the door flew open, knocking against my forehead with a force that had me checking for the expected wet heat of blood. Thankfully, I found nothing of the kind, but the area smarted angrily and I hoped the resulting bruise would not be too ungainly.

_ There you are, being vain again. _

As I rubbed at my forehead, the rest of my face contorted in pain, shock and more than a little embarrassment, Bianca leapt from her chair with a scowl and shouted, “Giuliano, you cannot just storm into my bedroom! Elena, are you well?”

Giuliano de’ Medici turned the full force of his sapphire eyes onto me, mouth sheepish, a hand at his chest and his head inclined. “Apologies, my lady.”

“There is no need, really…”

“Of course there is!” his sister interjected. “He could have lopped off an eye—you beast!” This last bit was punctuated by a shove at Giuliano’s chest that only succeeded in making him grin. He peered at my face and I put my hand down self-consciously, not knowing where to look, unsure of what Elena the Maid would do. Laura might have met his gaze head-on and said something clever, but that kind of forwardness was inappropriate to a servant so I kept silent and trained my eyes somewhere over his shoulder. My vacillation seemed to amuse him.

“I didn’t, did I?” he asked, voice a half-murmur that spoke of a dangerous charm, a siren song I knew had lured more than one of the female staff to his bed. Against my better instincts, my eyes darted to his. They danced with an internal light, a mischief. Kindness, too. Blushing, I recalled the whispered stories of the chambermaids who traded virtue for a night with their masters’ youngest son, their girlish giggles giving away just how little they minded falling into sin if it came with such delightful pleasures as the ones he provided.

Giuliano’s confidential smile widened, as though he could tell where my thoughts had wandered. “No,” he went on, in that same lulling tone, “I’d say both your pretty eyes are still blessedly intact. Elena, was it?”

Bianca broke the spell with a  _ tsk _ . “Honestly—you are unbelievable!” She yanked him away from the door, then turned to me, apology and warning both equally present in the fine features of her face. “Thank you, Elena,” she said pointedly, “you are free to do with your evening as you wish.”

As I bowed and made my exit, I heard another slapping sound, this one louder than the one before. Giuliano’s answering “Ow!” made me smile. He was dashing, all right, one of the most coveted men in all of Florence with his broad-shouldered athleticism, his high, chiseled cheekbones and effortlessly tousled hair. Any woman would find in him something to desire, and although my fellow servants gave away such favors more readily than the ladies of my former class—virtue being as important a currency as the size of one’s dowry when it came to marriage talks—I was not yet so accustomed to my present situation so as to contemplate a dalliance with Giuliano de’ Medici. Better to keep my head down, play by the rules, and avoid scandal.

There wasn’t much for a lady’s maid to do during a feast. My presence belowstairs was a hindrance to my more experienced counterparts and Bianca would not require my assistance until the small hours of the morning, when the revels had ended and the celebrants stumbled into their warm, waiting beds, some with company, others without. I decided to rest, remembering, as my feet carried me down, how I never used to sleep after a feast; I would stay up until the sun rose, watching as the sky faded from velvet to taffeta to resplendent silk. Then, and only then, did I seek my bed to sleep until mid-afternoon.  _ You only torture yourself with these ruminations _ , I scolded, shuffling into the hallway reserved for women-servants.

My door was the one in the middle, narrow and as nondescript as its fellows. I shared the room with a couple of chambermaids: Isotta, a snow maiden of a girl around Marianna’s age, and Gemma, dark and knowing and one of Giuliano’s many conquests. It was from her that I heard tell of his prowess as a lover, a mere two weeks after Alma secured my position with the Medici majordomo. Though she made a show of giving her back to me, huddling close to Isotta in an effort to exclude me from their conversation, Gemma had purposefully pitched her voice just so—low enough to lend her words dramatic flair, but loud enough for them to carry across the cramped quarters, all the way to my little cot bed shoved against the opposite wall. I knew it was not a decent sort of conversation; there were things mothers taught their daughters not to discuss, but Gemma wanted me to hear, and the truth was that I’d heard similar recountings in my eighteen years as a woman of polite society. Well-bred girls may have been raised with a greater awareness of the value of their virginity, but it was not unheard of for the married ones to take lovers once the danger of ruination had passed. Like Gemma, they eagerly shared the details of their couplings, all while clinging to a pretense of modesty. Rich, poor… I was learning that people were all the same, regardless of birth. The only difference between me and Bianca de’ Medici was that she did not have to rise at the crack of dawn if she did not wish, and her room was much larger than mine.

I sat on my bed, the pink dress still in my hands. It felt like water underneath my fingers, and although a part of me wanted to put it on, to feel the fine fabric swishing around my legs, my wiser self knew doing so would only move me to tears.

I could not afford to cry, not when Gemma or Isotta could walk in at any minute.

Carefully, I folded the dress and packed it away in the only bag I’d brought with me from the convent. At the time, it held everything I needed for my escape: a bit of rope, my father’s compass, a hunk of bread and wedge of cheese put away from the day’s simple repast, as well as a knife pilfered from the prioress’s dining table.

It was all very theatrical, but my actual escape had been anticlimactic, simple, with neither the yelling nor the chasing I had first envisioned. I had climbed a tree, dropped a rope, lowered myself to the other side of the wall—easy as that. I left a note, too, lest anyone panic and launch a search party; Mother must have had a time explaining my sudden absence to the nuns, but my message was clear: if I cannot be myself outside these walls, then I will make my own way and become someone else.

Marianna thought I was mad. She said I was too much of a rule-follower and that I’d never go through with it.

“Come with me,” I begged, a week before I left. A new life would be easier with my dear sister at my side. “Let Mother take vows if that is really what she wants. But why should you or I give up everything just because the world thinks ill of our names?”

Now I knew she was right not to come. I loved Marianna, but she was too proud to serve another woman, even one as benevolent and undemanding as Bianca. I was strong enough—I could do it, and if ever she found herself having to choose between a nun’s habit and her freedom, I might just have enough gold saved up to help her make a new start. She could run a shop, or marry. She was certainly beautiful enough that a man of the merchant class might overlook her lack of dowry and take her for wife.

As for me, if domestic bliss was not in my future, then so be it.

I lifted my father’s silver compass from the bag. It was engraved with the crest of the Savelli: the three stars, the tower standing strong and proud. I felt the lines of the symbol with my thumb, touched the clasp, watched the lid pop open to reveal the glass-covered windrose… then I put it back. The compass and the pink silk dress were the only two luxuries left to me now.

_ How quick the fall…  _ So went my final thought as I lay in bed and dozed. A few hours later, I awoke with night having fallen, the sounds of merriment reaching even into the servants’ wing of the palazzo. I rubbed my bleary eyes, threw my legs over the bed and listened. There was laughter and the pounding of feet as guests clapped and reeled. If I strained, I could even make out a lute, a flute, and the beating of drums. I stretched my arms above my head, brushed the creases out of my plain black servant’s dress, and left the room.

In the courtyard, the feast-sounds called to me, cheery and enticing, reminding me that entry was forbidden, even for the barest of glimpses. Instead of courting temptation, I went back to Bianca’s room and finished the job I’d earlier begun. I worked with single-minded purpose, as if the fate of kingdoms relied upon how assiduously I hung or packed away each of the rejected gowns. Then I got it into my head to hunt for the missing pair of a cascading pearl earring, even crawling on hands and knees to check under the bed, the rug, and every piece of furniture on the barest of legs until, finally, I found it stuck to the satin exterior of a shoe.

My satisfaction was short-lived.  _ What are you doing? Is this really how you wish to spend the rest of your mortal life? _

The sentiment was underscored by a sharp burst of laughter from below.

_ It is this damned feast, Laura, that is all.  _ Tomorrow, when it was over, I would no longer be plagued by the bitter resentment lodging behind my eyes and threatening to spill over at the smallest provocation. I would go back to doing what I did best, which was bucking up and making do. I would smile at Bianca and keep Alma’s wrath away from her underlings, I would stay away from Messer Giuliano, definitely  _ not _ take out the dress hidden away among my things, and I would banish every thought of Laura Savelli until I learned to be content as nobody-Elena.

_ Only tonight. _ I would let myself be miserable for  _ one _ night, then no more.

I sighed, returned the earring to its gold-plated box on the vanity, and allowed my fingers to dance along the intricately-carved handles of Bianca’s hairbrushes and combs.

There were no mirrors in the little room I shared with Gemma and Isotta; we could not afford them. Yet here was one—large and elegantly framed, polished to a high sheen by one of the girls downstairs—and in the mood I was in, I let myself look, curious as to the changes wrought by three months in Florence, under the roof of the Medici.

My face was sharper, limbs leaner from use, as opposed to the softer lines of an easygoing life in the country. I was paler, too, from spending most of my time indoors. At Villa Savelli, we found any excuse to take our meals outside, to sit with our faces poised towards the sun, even with Mother yelling at Marianna and me that it would ruin our complexions.

I held out my hands. They were work-rough, spotted with needle-pricks from mending and sewing. And my long dark hair, once my greatest pride, the one beauty I possessed in greater measure than my sister, had lost the shine bestowed upon it by fragrant oils and the ritual of brushing that had made it gleam like Bianca’s. With one last, reproachful look, I turned away from my reflection and went back out, into the hall, contemplating where this strange night, this reverse-feast, would next lead.

My eyes caught on an open door. The faintest candlelight beckoned me forward, though not before I craned my neck to see if anyone else was near. Empty. And, with everyone distracted by the amusements going on below, I had a window of time during which my intrusion would go unnoticed. 

_ Only tonight _ , I reminded myself.  _ You can sate your curiosity tonight and then you must forget it. _

I felt myself smile—a true, warm, giddy smile—at the thought of what I’d find within. I slipped through the gap in the doorway. I’d never been inside this room before, though I’d peeked in on several occasions, in the daylight hours when I passed it on my way to the stairs. There was a study below, on the public level, where Messer Piero took meetings and conducted business, but this was the private library, the family’s trove, and the candles only leant it a greater air of mystery.

For a moment, I was bowled over by how alike it was to the library at Villa Savelli. The massive cases built into the walls, the thousand books that climbed from floor to ceiling, the smell of old parchment and leather perfuming the crisp night air. Greedily, I breathed it in. Father had loved books, and he’d had his favorites handsomely attired in the finest skins, the silver clasps adorned by skillful filigree. They’d fetched a worthy price when the time came to sell, and though I was sure they had kept us well-fed and sheltered for a good many months, I also saw how much their loss pained my father. Selling them killed him, I now knew, just as much as shame and disillusion.

I fetched one of the lit candles and brought it close to the shelves nearest the window. While my gaze swept over the titles, my hands caressed the spines of tomes written in Italian, Greek, Latin, many of which had been present in our own library back home. Still others were new to me, which made sense considering the wealth of the Medici. Even with our noble name, my father’s branch of the Savelli were country folk. There was our little town in Tuscany, and then there was Florence—the crown jewel of the peninsula in matters of art, culture, and philosophy.

_ If I had a library like this,  _ I marveled,  _ I would never leave.  _

I pulled out a relatively slim volume, one without writing on the spine, and opened it to the title page. By the light of the flame I set carefully down on the windowsill, I saw it was a binding of the Theban plays translated to Latin. I thumbed through the pages at random, not realizing how much I missed the sight of words on paper until I held the book in my hand.

A fresh wave of despair washed over me, accompanied by the bittersweet memory of my own, now lost, copy; of the hours I spent curled up in a chair by the fire with the unfortunate King Oedipus and his brave Antigone, whose predicaments felt all the more germane in light of Father’s downfall. I shook my head slightly, a ruefulness in my chest as I saw the line on which my eyes fell.

Aloud, a hitch in my whispered voice, I read: “‘…neither the waters of the Danube nor the Nile can wash this palace clean. Such things it hides, it soon will bring to light—terrible things, and none done blindly now, all done with a will.’” I paused, my father’s intonation rising, in my thoughts, to meet with mine as I finished the verse: “‘The pains we inflict upon ourselves hurt most of all.’”

“You are fond of Sophocles?”

So lost was I in my reflection that the question seemed to come from the very air, and it was without considering that I answered, “Yes, very much,” before realizing that I was meant to be alone, that my presence in this private space was as forbidden as my snooping entry into the great hall.

With a gasp, I whirled around to find a tall, familiar figure standing behind me, his hands behind his back as he spoke. His manner was easy, disturbingly genial, as if I were merely a guest and he the gracious host answering my query. Except, I had asked no questions, and even the flickering candlelight was incapable of hiding the coarse nature of my dress, the servants’ apron, my unadorned hair.

“That copy in your hand was commissioned by my grandfather,” he said, inclining his head.

Awkwardly, I shifted the book in my grasp, not knowing how to ameliorate my misstep. I was nothing but a maid, manhandling something that once belonged to Cosimo de’ Medici, given to his son, kept in the palazzo of his family. Anyone could assume I had a nefarious purpose, that I meant to pilfer it, sell it, and pocket the yield. But he did not accuse me of thievery, only went on, wholly unperturbed, and looked to the upper shelves as he continued. “The original Greek is around here somewhere, I believe… Ah, yes—fourth shelf above your head—no, no, turn the other way—it’s on the left, see, five books in. He wanted something to help my father practice his Latin, but clearly you are in no need of such help. You are my sister’s maid. Elena.”

The sound of my false name worked to unfreeze me. I dipped into a hasty bow. “Messer de’ Medici.” When I straightened, it was to find him smiling, amused, and I was struck by the strangeness of the people who lived in this house, where I, by various turns of fortune, now found myself.

“Take it.”

I stared at him, mouth slightly agape. He had to be joking; or testing me, to see how far my presumption went. But there was no subterfuge in his eyes, at least not in what little of them I could see in this faint light. He seemed sincere. Solicitous, even, which only confused me further.

I swallowed my pride; if this was a test, I did not mean to fail further. I held out the book. “No, thank you, sir. It wouldn’t be proper.”

The irony of my professed concern about impropriety after being caught in a room in which I had no business was not lost on him. His smile widened. “I am not giving it to you, I am asking you to borrow it. Return it when you’re done. It’s not every day one discovers a scholar among—”

He must have seen my raised brow, the confrontational quirk that crept into the lines of my mouth, because his sentence came to a crashing halt and his poise slipped. “That is…”

He cleared his throat. Something about his discomfiture pleased me, allowed me to regain my bearings long enough to banish the mortified blush from my cheeks. This time, when I shifted the book in my hands, it was a proprietorial gesture.

“Among the peasants, you mean?”

His huffed half-laugh was defensive. “That is not the word I meant to use.”

Of course, that begged the question of what other word he could have possibly intended; either way, he was as caught out as I, and he knew it.

He smiled again, actually smiled as if conceding the point, and I found myself softening, wondering, unreasonably, about the color of his eyes. With the few candles and the reigning night casting everything in shadow, it was impossible to tell and, as my earlier run-in with Giuliano had proven, I’d made a concerted effort up to this point of giving the Medici brothers a wide berth. Too often, girls in my newfound position became easy prey for men with nothing to lose. Even Alma advised me not to give in to “funny business” when she took me in.

_ “And I reckon you know exactly what I mean by that, signorina. You are still your father’s daughter, and it would be reckless of me to ever let you forget it.” _

I wouldn’t—for the sake of my father’s memory, I would continue conducting myself as honorably as if he were alive, but that did not change the fact that Lorenzo de’ Medici was every bit as handsome as his younger brother. There was a purposefulness to his bearing, an enticing confidence, and yet—peasant-blunder notwithstanding—he gave the impression of being the furthest thing from a pedant. He had refrained from jumping to conclusions about the maid lurking in the library, and had offered to let me read the Sophocles if I so desired (which, I very much did).

It helped that, like the rest of his family, he had high cheekbones and a straight, patrician nose; that his hair shone bronze in the candlelight; and that he was tall, broad-shouldered, and lean.

Impartially, he was one of the most attractive men I had ever seen. In another life, his name might be the first to fall from my lips when Marianna asked with whom I would like to dance. In another life, him catching me in the library could lead to something more. I would let myself smile back and say, “The trouble is, messer, we go back to the country tomorrow, and how would I ever make sure you got it back?” “I’d write to you,” he would reply with a boyish grin, and though I would remind him of the rules of convention, secretly, I would wish for him to do it anyway. Later, when the feast was ended and Marianna plopped next to me in bed, I would tell her all about my encounter with the beguiling man from the library, the one with the easy smile…

“Where did you learn to read Latin?”

The mirage fell away. Once again I was Elena Guardi, girl who had no business knowing Latin. I could not deny it now; I had read aloud, stupidly, and must give an explanation for the sake of his agreeableness, if not his curiosity, which, I could see, was inconveniently piqued.

Again, I drew up; hunching would only make me look duplicitous. “My father was a clerk,” I replied. That made sense. Clerks could read and write.

Elena’s history rose before my eyes: mother, long dead; a father of modest means, but educated—eccentric, too, if he’d thought to teach his daughter Latin and an appreciation for Greek tragedy.

I could do this. I could field his questions without awakening his suspicion.

“A man of the law?” The uptick in his voice told me he was surprised, but not surprised enough to disbelieve. “And what are you doing picking up after my sister, then? Does he not think to arrange a good match for you?”

“He is dead.”

Another chink in his composure at my explicitness.

“I am sorry, I was not aware.”

“Why would you be, messer?”

He was quiet after that. He appeared genuinely aggrieved at the idea of having brought up some painful memory.  _ Why should he care about the feelings of a lady’s maid? _ I wondered. Could it be that his own experience as a beloved son of two loving parents made him sympathetic to those of us who, unlike him, were orphaned and unfortunate? Or was I reading too much into the words of a man who was, admittedly, a stranger?

I had no further opportunity to ponder. He nodded once more to the book in my hands and recited: “‘In matters where I know naught I hold my tongue.’ Perhaps it would do me well to read it again, once you are done.”

He was too charming by half. “I should go,” I said, mindful of the effect of his self-deprecating kindness.

“Or, I can go and you can stay?”

At the offer, I eyed him warily. “It would only get me into trouble, sir.”

“Right,” he nodded, as though the possibility had only now occurred to him. “Right, as you wish.”

_ What an utterly confounding man. _ I didn’t know him well enough to determine whether he was a more artful flirt than his brother, Giuliano, or whether he actually made a habit of conversing with servants, but he seemed reluctant that either of us should leave.

“Was there anything else?” I asked. It went against my judgment to give him another opening, but I was also aware that, for every perfect feast night, there was another when all one wanted to do was find a quiet room and hide.

He seemed about to say something to that effect, then reconsidered. “No, thank you, Elena. Good night.”

I tucked away my disappointment (was that the word for what I felt?) and dropped into a final bow. Below, the music was still going strong, but I no longer yearned to follow its sound. I straightened. “Good night”—then, deeming it harmless, added—“Messer Lorenzo.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of 3/03 there have been some changes made to this chapter, including to dialogue, and a 1k-addition to the word count. Nothing about the main plot has changed, so you can skip right on to Chapter 3 if you like, but I prefer the altered version to what was there before as I believe it clarifies some of the character development that takes place in the next one.

Once, when it stormed over our lands without relent for a week, my bored sister climbed into the window seat of the library, threw her head into my lap and demanded that I read her the plays about Oedipus the king. When I finished, she was so quiet I thought she must surely have fallen asleep until, with a sudden movement, she sat up and declared, "That was the most dreadful thing I have ever heard!" At dinner, she continued this denunciation of Sophocles, and indeed of the whole of the ancient Greek canon, what with its penchant for incest and murder, the plucking out of organs, and the ill-use of maidens.

"It is not… well, it is not Christian!"

Father speared a piece of quail onto his fork. "No, my dear, I believe it is quite pagan."

I snorted into my wineglass, Mother glared, Father suggested that Marianna might prefer Petrarch instead.

Still, for all her ravings, there was one notable exception to my sister’s no-Greeks rule, and it was Xenophon's _Ephesian Tale_ , a ridiculous melodrama involving multiple shipwrecks, pirate attacks, the jealousies of jilted suitors, live entombments, poisonings, and finally, a sacrifice to the hunter-goddess Artemis, that she may bless the union of the virtuous Anthia and brave Habrocomes. I used to tease her for it relentlessly.

“Just you wait, Laura Savelli!” she declared on one such occasion, pink-cheeked from chasing me around the garden, blond curls sticking to her face in the noonday sun. “One of these days you are going to meet someone just the way Anthia did—”

“At a festival of Artemis? In the middle of Tuscany?”

“—you will be taken _completely_ by surprise—”

“—And what would Father Adamo say? We might be excommunicated!” My tone was gently mocking. From a cushioned bench-seat, Mother called for us to stop behaving like urchins.

“—and you won’t know what to do with yourself. _Then_ I will have the last laugh!” By the end, my sister was nearly screeching. Marianna couldn’t abide for romance to be taken lightly, let alone in her presence.

“There, there,” I soothed, trying not to laugh at her outrage. “If any one of us is to fall victim to your _theia mania_ , dear sister, I’d rather it be you. You know Father and Mother must choose my husband. You, on the other hand… you will meet a kind, handsome stranger at an otherwise dreary feast and you will marry him and be the gladdest of women.”

Placated, she stopped the chase and gave me a bashful smile, touched by the sentiment I expressed and the honesty in my voice. I might tease her for having romantic whims, but my greatest wish had always been that she find someone worthy of her. Indeed, it remained so, even now, when we were so far apart and her prospects so dim. _Let her have the hero and the great adventure._ All I’d ever wanted was for her to be happy. In my case, “love’s arrows” could be nothing but nonsense, and in order to prove just how sensible I was, I resolved, in the weeks following Easter, to undertake my work with renewed focus. There would be no more empty candlelit rooms, no more curious queries by men with easy smiles and gentle voices. There was only the job—only my desire to help my younger sister.

Perversely, the more “Elena” I tried to be, the more my chambermate Gemma seemed to detest me. Her stormy glares and pointed jabs took on a viciousness for which I could hardly account until, without further recourse, I found myself taking the matter to Alma. As lady of the kitchens, she was privy to all sorts of gossip and might be able to shed light on the matter. I caught her just as she was preparing the dessert course for dinner. At my question, she gave a little dry chuckle and continued to stir her custard.

"Oh, _that_."

I stared. She went no further, but there was a knowing look on her face, a touch of humor that made my skin prickle. " _'That'?_ What does 'that' mean?"

"It is nonsense, child! At least, I hope it is. You are not being too free with the young messers, are you?”

“I beg your pardon!” Her shrewd gaze trapped mine. It took considerable effort not to stick a hand protectively into my pocket, where the rectangular weight lay against my leg, hidden from view by the apron I kept securely tied around my waist. Only when she was satisfied did Alma nod and turn back to the stove.

"I knew it was drivel. You want to know why Gemma is so against you? Ask Messer Giuliano to quit all those smiles and glances he’s been sending your way for the last month. Honestly… The things idle minds get up to…” I wasn’t sure whether she meant Gemma’s or Giuliano’s, but I frowned at how closely my movements were being watched and reported—and misunderstood, by the sounds of it.

It was true that, after the incident with Bianca’s door, her brother had begun displaying an unprecedented amount of friendliness towards me. But I had assumed that it was a matter of Giuliano being Giuliano, that he meant to annoy his sister, or else amuse himself by playing the gallant with one of the newer maids. Never would I have thought to take his overtures to heart—neither, did I conjecture, did he expect me to.

Was it _I_ who misunderstood? Should I be more wary of his attentions going forward, more clear in conveying my lack of interest in an affair?

 _I can’t go down this road again…_ As I ran through my behavior over the past month, looking for errors or lapses in judgment, I began to feel the beginnings of a low panic hovering at the edge of my thoughts, one only halted by the instinct that I was not, in fact, in any danger. I knew ill intent: it was heavy and dangerous, like a noose being lowered around the neck. I was sure the situation was different. The _man_ was different.

Resolutely, I shook my head. “Giuliano is harmless.” Alma took her custard off the flame and moved to the battered old trestle table that ran the length of the room, unaware of my slowing breath or the fact that it had quickened at all.

“He is incorrigible and a bit of a fool, it’s true, but dishonesty is not among his many faults. Gemma, on the other hand…” She gave a warning tut. “That one is not one to be taken lightly."

"I am gathering that. But what else can I do?” I asked the wise cook. “I cannot _make_ her like me. Heaven knows I’ve certainly tried but she is determined to do otherwise.” Regardless of how earnestly I endeavored to establish a truce between the hostile chambermaid and myself, I never could surmount the fact that I had been given a job she coveted, or that I represented an unwelcome change to the household in which she had lived for the last nine years. Alma considered, brows drawn, lips pursed, so that I knew she gave the matter serious thought.

While most would agree that Donna Collodi was a handsome woman, I had heard too many caveats about her age and station to convince me that her talents went, for the most part, unappreciated. To me, she was as grand as any well-born lady, with a regal authority and temper to match, so I awaited her counsel patiently, watching as capable hands poured the custard into a dish of cooked pastry, the wafting steam carrying the smell of sugar mixed with cinnamon. It was a soothing scent, reminiscent of my childhood at Villa Savelli and countless other afternoons spent in her company. At length, she spoke:

“In times like these, it is best to do nothing. Let it blow over. But watch yourself carefully, mind—make sure no one has reason to point fingers or ask questions of you. When Messer Giuliano makes another conquest, then Gemma will have found somebody else at whom to glower."

I let out a long breath. "From your lips…"

"Oh, now stop your fretting!” In front of me, she dropped the custard pot and a wooden spoon. I broke into a grin. For all her fussiness about decorum, Alma was entirely vain about her cooking: if I stared wistfully for long enough, she always caved and let me sample her dishes in exchange for a bit of flattery.

I peered inside. What was left glimmered like sunshine at the bottom, and when I stuck a laden spoon into my mouth my eyes fell closed at a taste like spiced silk, or a sunny autumn day in the country, when the heat was nothing more than a caress and the breeze made the tall grass sway. “Alma,” I breathed, “it is _heavenly_!”

"I certainly hope so.” Her tone was dry, but she betrayed her pleasure by drawing up a bit. I scooped another spoonful, turning sly.

"So… for whom did you make it?"

"What a question!” She tutted, made a show of turning her back to put the tart into the oven, but I wasn’t fooled. Her finest wonders were always reserved for her favorites: at home, that had been Father, and though among the Medici the precedence was yet unclear, I knew diriola this divine could only be for someone truly special.

She turned back and found me polishing off the spoon, staring at her with a raised brow and a knowing look. “Oh, fine!” she admitted. “If you must know, Father Carlo is coming to dine tonight."

"Alma, really! And I see you are making candied pomegranate as well!”

"Don't you 'really' me!” In an attempt to hide the red points that had sprouted upon her cheeks, she shook her apron out briskly. “When _you_ can ensure my immortal soul, _then_ I will make you a custard tart.”

I laughed heartily for the first time in weeks.

* * *

It came to pass, following a fair bit of back-and-forth, that Madonna de’ Medici acceded to her daughter’s request to frequent the Church of San Lorenzo unescorted. Once a week Bianca claimed to spend late mornings and most of the afternoon in prayer and almsgiving, infallibly returning with a bright joyfulness I found incommensurate to the task, and though I knew it was none of my business, I couldn’t help but suspect that it was more than charity that cast such a glowing look upon her features.

 _If ever Mass could so delight a girl…_ The thought came unbidden, but very clearly in my mother’s arch lilt, as I fastened the sleeves of Bianca’s wine-colored dress that night. I quickly sent it away, choosing to focus on the task at hand. The affairs of the Medici were not my concern. I repeated it for good measure: _the affairs of the Medici were not my concern._

Today, she was even chattier than usual and more restless, making it difficult for me to properly attend to her.

“…and then I told Mother, ‘You cannot let them take over like this! What will poor Carlo think, expecting a nice, quiet night in with family after days on the road only to find half-a-dozen of the city’s biggest scoundrels congregated in our dining hall?’

“Father took their side, of course, said the boys would liven up the evening. Can you believe he called them that? _The boys…_ ” She rolled her eyes and played with the necklace at her throat, sighing happily in a way that took all the bite out of her jeering. “You haven’t any brothers, do you, Elena? Only, I can’t remember if I’ve ever asked.”

“No, signorina, I am an only child.” I pretended to struggle with one of the knots at her wrist so I would not have to face her as I lied.

She grinned. “Well done, you!” Then swiftly amended by saying, “Oh, you know I only half-mean that. Mine are really quite decent if you overlook all their nonsense-talk and the prancing around like peacocks. It never fails to amaze, but there are women who truly fall for that sort of thing—not that you seem the type, of course, you are much too sensible—but I suppose one never knows when it comes to, well, you know…" She broke off with a little laugh, fiddling with her cuffs and adjusting her earrings.

 _Oh, bother_ , I thought, _another romantic…_ My skepticism must have shown, because she laughed again, and there was a touch of self-consciousness in the sound that reminded me of—

I let the thought go wisely unfinished.

"Come now,” she urged, “you must have had your fair share of admirers back home!"

I allowed myself the barest of snorts. “If I did, they certainly kept it to themselves.”

“Oh, I don’t believe that. You are really quite lovely, you know. It’s true!” she exclaimed at my swift dismissal. “In two months’ time, when your trial is over, I will take you all around Florence and you will have a dozen—no, a hundred! _—_ suitors falling at your feet.”

Impaling my eyes on Jocasta’s pin sounded preferable to enduring such an ordeal. I changed the subject.

"Have you considered a mantle, signorina? There is a chill in the air and it seems as though it might rain."

Like my sister, Bianca de’ Medici had a presence like a thousand tinkling bells, yet somehow their absences managed to be far louder than their clatter. I sighed into the deafening quiet after she left for dinner, dropping into a chair by the window and taking a mending basket into my lap so I could start on an emerald-green gown with a ragged hem. Through the glass, the first pats of rain began to fall, and the question that had plagued me with increasing frequency of late began to vex me once more— _how long could I continue holding the line?_ The longer I remained at Palazzo Medici, the harder it became not to give in to the family’s easy charm.

From Alma I knew that servants could sometimes form fond attachments to their employers, but I was not here to stay—not for good, at least. And it was unwise to keep putting myself in positions that forced me to lie. Before long the faint drops hitting the panes turned to streams as it began to rain in earnest. I set aside my mending and slipped the Sophocles out of my pocket. The leather was skin-warmed and soft. In keeping with the terms of the loan, I had meant to carry out its safe return for weeks, but without the safety of darkness and near-anonymity I was afraid of what might happen if I did.

 _I could do it now, with everyone away at dinner_. It would be easy enough to go into the library, put it back on its shelf, and have no one be the wiser. To be sure, it was a coward’s move, but it was better than holding on to a useless anchor, a reminder of a dream concocted by loneliness which should have been rejected outright.

I closed my eyes, opening the book’s pages and letting them fall open by chance. It was a bibliomancy that would have sent Father Adamo into hysterics, I knew, but I was hoping for a sign, or at least a bit of courage. I glanced down to find the words of the oracle:

 _“How dreadful knowledge of the truth can be when there is no help in truth! I knew this well but made myself forget.”_ And then, ominously: _“I should never have come.”_

Well, that wasn’t helpful. With a flick of the wrist, I snapped the covers shut and put the book back into my pocket.

It was _ridiculous_. Why should one meeting—one which had lasted no more than the length of a galliard—have fixed itself so stubbornly in my thoughts? This wasn’t Anthia meeting Habrocomes at the festival; this was the son of the house extending a kind gesture towards his sister’s maid. _His sister’s maid_. And yet, even through all the lies I had never felt more like Laura than in front of that man, who asked questions and seemed so interested in hearing the answers. What I’d said to Bianca was true: despite being the eldest, I’d always been the less interesting prize. Only Father had ever made me feel as though I had something worthwhile to say, and, for a moment—foolish though I knew it was—I had felt that night that there might be another.

Oh, not him, of course, that was out of the question, but somebody _like_ him.

It was a strange thought, when I had never thought of marriage as anything but a necessary arrangement.

I took up my mending again, taking care to keep the stitches small and straight. With her name and beauty, Bianca would soon be wed and I could decide then whether to stay in Florence or to move on. In the meantime, I needed to keep my wits about me—no more antagonizing Gemma, a more careful step around Giuliano, and the book… I must deal with the book. But not tonight.

As the seventh hour turned to eighth and then ninth, the storm took on a brisker note. By the time Bianca returned, I had seen several streaks of lightning through the fogged-up glass, the rumbling bursts of thunder enough to have set Mother’s teeth on edge. It was a good thing Father Carlo had arrived this afternoon and not the next, when the roads were sure to be vexingly muddy.

“You like storms,” Bianca commented, watching me with a smile as I pulled back the counterpane of her enormous bed. She stood in her night rail, hair brushed to a soft sheen, and yet carried some of the morning’s unexplained radiance. Whatever she did at San Lorenzo, I hoped it never ended in grief.

“We had plenty in the country,” I replied. “But Mother couldn’t stand them.”

My hand stilled. _Did I say “cannot,” or “couldn’t”?_ These were the kinds of details that could get me caught.

A crash of thunder sounded overhead. Bianca settled contentedly under the covers, and if I blundered she gave no indication of having heard. I let out a sigh of relief. “Whyever not?”

“Pardon?” I asked.

“Your mother. Why did she hate storms?”

I picked up a candle snuffer, using the activity as an excuse to weigh the merits of speaking against those of silence. From Marianna, I knew that beautiful young women often went misread, especially those of a livelier disposition, whom everyone assumed incapable of deep understanding or shrewdness of thought. My mistress was neither—she was as canny as her brothers and, I would wager, even cannier still, with a quick wit and an inventiveness that had served her well these past weeks, when she was presumably playing everyone for fools.

On the other hand, what she asked seemed so trivial. _What could be the harm?_ As on the night of the banquet, a bit of darkness made it easier to speak. I saw my mother’s valiant smile, the one that never slipped despite the rigid corners, as people milled about our great hall, heedless of the lightning and thunder that made her hands shake. No one ever knew about her hands; she kept them hidden under the table, where no one could see. Sometimes, Father would reach over and take her hand in his, the reassuring press a comfort that made her shoulders ease.

My eyes pricked at the memory. A feeling I recognized as loneliness lodged firmly in my chest.

“When she was a girl,” I said, “a lightning strike set the old tree in front of her house ablaze. It happened right in front of her bedroom window, see, and the glow of flames woke her from slumber. She was frightened. Even with the rain, the tree refused to go out until it burned fully to ash.”

Bianca shuddered. “That sounds dreadful.”

“I wish I’d been there.” Somehow, I’d always felt that night of the burning tree would explain something fundamental about my mother, something I had never been able to understand after all these years as her daughter.

I set the snuffer on the nightstand. The sound of brass hitting wood was like the striking of a bell, and when I turned to Bianca she was peering at me carefully, hands folded on top of the bedding. She smiled. “You are a bit of a closed book, Elena Guardi. Only, I noticed earlier, when we were speaking about…”

“My hundred suitors?” She laughed, hunching down and pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Growing up with brothers doesn’t leave much room for subtlety, I’m afraid. You mustn’t feel obliged to tell me things. But you can, if you wish.”

The knot in my chest tightened. The breach between what I wished and what I could safely do was widening with each passing day. I smiled back. “Good night, Signorina Bianca.”

She wished me the same, and I was halfway through the door when she cried, “Oh! Elena, I forgot to bring my mantle up from the dining room. Would you be a dear and fetch it for me? I wouldn’t ask, except it was a gift and I would rather not see it used in another recreation of the murder of Caesar.”

I frowned with a hand on the knob. “ _Another_ recreation?”

“They might behave themselves for Carlo’s benefit,” chuckled Bianca, “but one can never be too sure.” Only when I was leaning on the other side of the door did I realize where I had mindlessly agreed to go. The dining room. Her brothers.

 _Mother of God…_ The hundred suitors were sounding ideal.

* * *

Downstairs, after crossing the courtyard like one of the condemned, I took a peek into the occupied dining hall, a comfortable room with lush tapestries in reds and purples, a fireplace at one end, and a long table laden with a feast fit for royalty dominating most of its length. At the convent our simple fare had been prepared by nuns and presented with the disclaimer that indulgence distracted the soul from God—what would they think of this exorbitant spread? I wondered, scanning the empty furniture for Bianca’s crimson wrap. The men continued to laugh and drink, completely unaware of my creeping presence. On the heels of a burst of laughter, I spotted my target draped over the back of a chair at the eastern end of the room. With any luck, I could slip in and out unnoticed. Servants were always coming and going when guests came to dine.

I took a step forward. A lashing of rain made the windows rattle, and my ears caught the sound of a beleaguered groan, followed by Giuliano’s voice, declaring: “Not this old fight again! Sandro, for an artist, you are sorely without imagination. Why must _everything_ come back to God with you?”

A stranger replied: “You are forgetting who your guest of honor is, friend.”

“Oh, I assure you, I am no longer scandalized by Giuliano,” said a third. “After so many years, I am rendered quite immune to his showy nullfidity.”

“Thank you, uncle.”

“…But I must make it clear that I do agree with Sandro on this point.”

“Of _course_ you do.”

“Well, don’t say it like that!”

“You are the most biased person in the room, Carlo! No offense.”

“And yet I do believe some was intended.”

The strangers carried on with their clever salvoes; I tried not to pay them any mind. The language they employed might as well have been a foreign tongue for all its freedom and familiarness. Women were never encouraged to speak as they did, even in private—we were meant to be poised and restrained, level-headed, unargumentative… Though, for the barest of seconds, I did find amusement in the thought of a similar congregation composed of certain sharp-tongued ladies of my former acquaintance. Yes, I did think we might have been equal to the task, if only the dictates of society would allow for such a gathering… Before long, I had the mantle in hand. All that was left of my errand was to retrace my steps upon the flags.

_Forward, forward, nearly to the door…_

“Elena, there you are! Come and settle a matter for us, would you?”

I felt my stomach lurch unpleasantly. Slowly, and quite against my will, I turned to face the Medici brothers and their four strange guests, recalling, as Bianca had earlier claimed, that they were six of the biggest scoundrels in Florence.

Indeed, having seen them now, I could well believe that the rumors were true: the men were all young, keen-eyed and handsomely-dressed, with the exception of Father Carlo, of course, and the frowning man occupying the chair to Giuliano’s left. When compared to the others, his hair was slightly wild and unkempt, and I could see irregular stains on his doublet sleeves that appeared, from a distance at least, to be dried paint.

The strangers studied me in turn, faces betraying varying degrees of curiosity and confusion as I stood awkwardly before the assemblage. “I’m afraid I don’t see how I could be of any help.”

“Come _on…_ ” He drew out the syllable to its most cajoling length. “It’ll only be a minute.”

At his side, Lorenzo had the look of a ruffled man trying to appear otherwise. “Giuliano,” he whispered, “leave her be.”

Unfortunately, this only succeeded in amplifying the curiosity of his guests. The blond man directly in front of me went so far as to swivel further in his chair, head cocked to the side like an inquiring spaniel, in order to determine the cause of the elder Medici’s protectiveness. Father Carlo took pity on my predicament.

“Yes, Giuliano, I am sure the lady has much more pressing matters to attend to.”

“ _For my sister_?” Giuliano scoffed, grinned at me as if we were apprised of the same secret joke. “Please. Besides, there is no need to be so modest, Elena—not when I know for a fact how well-versed you are in the old Greeks.”

“I beg your pardon?” I shrunk back at the statement, turning owlish, and I could hardly tell whether my cheeks had flushed or gone entirely numb, bloodless with the force of what Giuliano said he knew as “fact.”

My gaze fell on Lorenzo. As I had feared, the blazing glow of many candles confirmed that his handsomeness had been no shadow-bought illusion, yet my response to such an awareness was dulled by the sting of betrayal that lodged within me as our eyes met. I had confided in no one about our meeting—not only because it flirted with the bounds of propriety, but because I had thought…

 _It doesn’t matter now_ , I harshly scolded, embarrassed by the weeks I had spent imagining a kinship that had never existed. _You were clearly mistaken._

For a moment, a flash of guilt marred his features, before Giuliano’s lordly tones recaptured my attention.

“It’s a simple question, really.” He had his elbows on the table—Mother abhorred when people did that—and he gestured to the dark-haired man sitting across from him.

“Poliziano here believes that the nature of philosophy should remain philological, but Botticelli and my uncle argue that philosophy, like art, only holds value as long as it brings us ‘closer to God’—whatever that means.”

An uncomfortable ripple moved through the hall.

Nobody spoke to servants like this in public, let alone to women, and certainly not to discuss philosophy before invited guests in the middle of a storm.

 _He is incorrigible and a bit of a fool._ I was starting to agree with Alma’s discerning view.

Still, the question he posed took root, stretching out and taking hold of disjointed snatches—things I’d read, phrases I’d heard spoken—until, unwittingly, a shoot began to spring. Giuliano took notice. “Aha! I see a flicker—you had an answer the second I posed the question!” He snapped his fingers, flashed a toothy grin.

This was all a game to him, I realized, a diversion. It amused him to single me out in a roomful of strangers and throw a gauntlet down at my feet.

 _It’s a simple question, really… I know for a fact you are well-versed…_ If I insisted on leaving now I would only seem a coward, but staying meant the possibility of disgrace if I spoke ungainly or caused one of them offense. Lorenzo saw my quandary and shook his head. He did it helpfully, I knew, as an offer to soften the blow of my exit, but I was still upset with him for having violated the nonexistent pact between us. Whatever he’d told Giuliano could not have been very encomiastic if his brother was now using it to toy with me.

“Neither,” I spoke into the quiet hall.

“ _Neither?_ ”

“Giuliano, this display is ridiculous.”

Giuliano stalled his brother with a beringed hand. “No, no, that kind of an answer requires explanation. Or are you underestimating the woman now, brother?

“Sandro, move over.” This command he issued to the unkempt man, meaning for him to take one of the unoccupied seats so I could sit at his right, a mere two seats away from Lorenzo. I could think of nothing worse.

“I rather think that’s up to her,” Sandro shot back darkly, giving me the courage to speak up and say I wished to remain as I was.

Giuliano shrugged. “Suit yourself.” And then he gestured to the assemblage of guests and made introductions—“for the sake of civility,” he said, as if any of this was remotely civil.

Sandro Botticelli was the beset artist, making sense of his less-prosperous appearance and the various markings on his clothes. Poliziano was dark and genial, Father Carlo wore the raiments of a priest, and Niccolò Valori, whom Giuliano described as “our resident heathen,” had the same devilish good looks as his friend, with his crooked smile and coppery-blond hair.

“Of course, you already know Lorenzo,” he concluded.

The man in question looked something close to miserable. I took heart in that, losing it only when his brother upturned his palms as if convening a university lecture and said, “My lady, the floor is yours.”

It was then I realized I hadn’t the first notion of where to begin. My attention was paralyzed by the strange faces, the myriad thoughts swirling as if borne on a storm of their own, and I couldn’t calm them long enough to find the first thread of an argument. _What are you doing?_ I frantically asked myself, wondering how I had allowed Giuliano to maneuver me into a position like this in the first place.

The seconds dragged on. Father Carlo, with his kind eyes and long-suffering air, was the one to save me from ignominious silence.

“Surely, signorina, the search for wisdom cannot be a wholly secular endeavor. Where would that leave theology?”

It was a narrower question, and one to which I blessedly knew the answer.

“With God, Father, where it has always been.”

“And philosophy?”

“In wonder.”

He smiled. “Socrates. And yet, ‘when I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained…’ Is that not sufficient wonder?”

The Psalm he quoted was one of Father’s favorites; it’s familiar sound soothed at my nerves and my voice lost some of its tautness. “Of course it is! And if it were simply a question of determining the divinity of the natural world, then I would say you were correct. But to say philosophy—the search for wisdom—is divine—"

He frowned. “God is the Source of wisdom."

"God is entirely perfect,” I argued, the mantle making it hard for me to gesticulate without looking ridiculous. “What need has He for wisdom? One only seeks if one does not already have."

Messer Valori slapped his palm against the table. “Exactly! Questions of God are the remit of the Church. But the old philosophers weren't interested in religion—they sought answers of the here and now, of governance and curing the ills of common people. Hunger, corruption, tyrannical rule… Their point was in making _this_ world better, not the perfect next."

I nodded. “What is knowledge without justice.”

“More Socrates?” He smiled, the roguishness of it almost making me laugh.

“Plato,” Poliziano corrected, “by way of Socrates. Are you leading us to the point, signorina, that philosophy is more secular than divine?”

“It is _human_ , messer—we invent by necessity. But, seeing as we are made in the very image of God, I suppose it wouldn’t be far off the mark to argue that there is also something of divinity in our constant search for wisdom.”

“But can a thing not be simply beautiful? _Must_ it have a purpose, either theological or political?”

Poliziano was half-out of his chair by then, a crease between his brows and an almost pleading expression that told me how passionately he felt about the subject. Bianca was right: there was no reason to be intimidated by the men at this table. They were all hot air and nonsense, big ideas, a superfluity of words. Having spent many months now as a servant, I could finally understand how pointless these debates might seem to people who never got a say, one way or another, in their own governance. But there _was_ a certain beauty in it—in the words and the lofty imaginings, in the prospect that the world could be set to rights with the proper idea.

“I am afraid that question would say more about you, messer, than about the nature of philosophy. And if you mean to branch us into metaphysics, then I am afraid I would soon be in need of that chair.”

There was silence. Then Messer Valori let out an ungainly snort, Poliziano laughed, and soon the entire table had joined in. All but Lorenzo, who still tried to catch my eye. I ignored him purposefully, wanting to see neither approval nor condemnation writ upon his handsome features. _The opinions of the Medici are not your concern._

Poliziano wanted to keep on the point of beauty, but the rest of his companions took off on livelier topics and I felt my presence would only dampen their more ribald tomfoolery. With a cursory bid that they enjoy the rest of their evening, I took my leave, Bianca’s cursed mantle still grasped between my fingers.

 _Had I really done that?_ I felt strangely giddy about having held my own. Before Father died, we’d spent nights in front of the fireside, discussing the nature of philosophy, religion, time, self, God… Mother certainly never understood it, but they were some of my very fondest memories. I shook my head, self-recrimination setting in now that the excitement was done. That was _Laura’s_ past, and I had let her show tonight, though I shouldn’t have done.

 _Watch yourself carefully_ … _How long can you keep holding the line?_

There were footsteps approaching. My entire body prickled with awareness and I began climbing the staircase, feeling my breath quicken as Lorenzo drew ever closer.

“Elena,” he called.

I kept climbing.

“Elena!”

I whirled around to face him. _The opinions of the Medici are not your concern—you were clearly mistaken—you are his sister’s maid._

“Yes, Messer de’ Medici?” I asked in my coolest, maid-like tone.

“Giuliano should never have done that.” His hand was on the polished rail, and the ends of his hair, touched by a torch set into a sconce in the wall, glowed beautifully bronze. “In my defense, I had no idea what you said was meant to be a secret.”

“No,” I replied, “how could you have done?” I was surprised at the ease with which he’d uncovered my point of contention, but I was angrier at myself than at him, and so my voice remained cool, even as he did his best to placate.

“But I apologize. I do. It will not happen again.” He peered carefully into my face, searching it for signs of clemency. “How have you been?” he finally asked. “I’ve not seen you since—”

“I’ve been meaning to give this back.”

I extended the Sophocles. For a reason I had no wish to examine, it pained me to give it back, but I knew it wasn’t mine—it never was, and holding on would only prolong the inevitable.

Lorenzo cleared his throat. “May I ask why?”

“That was our arrangement, was it not? I thank you for having allowed me to borrow it.”

“All you have to do is ask.”

If I didn’t know any better, I would say there was a hint of injury to the way he took the book from my hand—but I was learning not to trust what I wanted or knew.

For a second, he silently traced the edges of the fleur-de-lys tooled onto the cover. I had done the same over the previous weeks, and something inside me fluttered at the image of his fingers moving over the same lines as mine had done.

“I must go,” I said quickly, “your sister is expecting me.”

“Elena…”

His hand wrapped around my wrist to stop my progress, and though it was the lightest of pressures I felt it as strongly as a blow.

My breath caught. Our eyes met, and having noticed my shock he released me at once, another apology forming quickly on his lips. This time I left no second opening. I turned on my heel and resumed the climb, taking the steps at speed, neither stopping nor turning until I was safely at the landing. Only then did I pause, heart pounding a fast rhythm in my chest, and remembered the question I had asked myself the night of the banquet, the one that had plagued my thoughts as much as the memory of his name.

Blue—his eyes were so incredibly blue.


End file.
